In the night

O wind, why break in idle pain

This wave that swept the seas

Foam is the meed of barren dreams

And hearts that cry for peace!

Lift then, O wind, this heart of mine,

And whirl aside in foam;

No -- wander on, unchanging heart,

The undrowning deeps thy home!

Less than a billow of the sea

That at the last doth no more roam,

Less than a wave, less than a wave,

This thing that hath no home,

This thing that hath no grave.